


in our house made of paper

by remnantof



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Camping, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleepiness, Stress Relief, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remnantof/pseuds/remnantof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim/Jaime first time fic.  The Titans go on a camping trip, and when Tim can't relax enough to sleep, Scarab has some suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in our house made of paper

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from tumblr by the author

So the Titans are kind of a mess. Jaime is pretty sure he knew that already, and the scarab just didn’t find it necessary to remind him before he agreed to go camping with them, but watching them attempt to camp is really driving it home. He’s not even sure why they’re camping, when they have a tower in the most temperate place on earth with a pool and a gym and entertainment center. Not that Jaime doesn’t like the outdoors, and not that northern California isn’t obscenely nice, but he’s been to space and he’s crash landed in the desert, and he kind of likes being able to come in from the outdoors even more.

Watching them try to put up tents was almost amusing though, even with the scarab giving its input on the process and telling him it could build them a shelter, and he had to wander off to explain to it about how doing needlessly difficult things in the woods was part of the _experience_ , which it really didn’t get. But he thinks it’s starting to find the whole thing funny too, and it’s really nice to have someone on his side, even if things stop being funny when Cassie can’t take being around them all any longer and goes to bed, and suddenly everyone has to figure out where they’re sleeping.

Six people: three tents. It should be easy, but then, Jaime had also thought two tents for three guys and three girls would be even easier, but Cassie wants to be alone, and Rose wants to get into Tim’s pants (and Cassie’s, the scarab keeps trying to tell him, which is a nice image but not exactly _helpful_ when he’s sharing a tent with a dude), and Eddie wants to not be in a tent with Jaime, so.

Tim had started grinding his teeth again, and just when Jaime was starting to weigh the likelihood that Tim does that in his sleep against the likelihood that Eddie sets things on fire in his, and which would be worse, Tim decided they were sharing and stalked to the tent farthest from Rose and Eddie’s.

An hour later, Rose and Eddie are still talking by the fire, not remotely put out by the decision, and M’gann has appealed to Cassie’s higher judgment or whatever stops any of them from acting like sulky teenagers when they’re supposed to be superheroes, and Jaime thinks they’re asleep. So really, everything is fine and the sleeping bags are surprisingly comfortable, and he thinks Tim even took his mask off at some point.

The scarab does some kind of scan and tells him that yes, Tim isn’t wearing a mask. Or a shirt, or…socks. Okay then. “Way to go above and beyond the call,” he mutters, wondering how he’s ever going to sleep with Tim laying hard and still as a rock next to him, and the scarab telling him about how naked Tim’s feet are.

 _Certain humans: feet = attractive._

“ _Wow_ , okay, I don’t even want to know where you picked that up.” And Tim doesn’t shift next to him, but he manages to become even more rock-like and _horrifyingly distracting_ , and it’s starting to make Jaime tense up too. “Sorry, I’m keeping you up, my armor is just. Really conversational tonight.” And the scarab says something about friends and normally, Jaime tries to not have fuzzy girl feelings about the alien technology fused to his spine, but Eddie and Rose are laughing outside and he can definitely smell weed, and Cassie is probably crying into M’gann’s green bosom right now ( _not helpful images not helpful_ ), and Tim is…barely moving while Jaime has some one-sided crisis next to him over his armor thinking he has a foot fetish, so. The scarab is possibly the best friend he has on this trip.

God, that is really sad. “Look man, if I’m bugging you—”

“You’re not.” Tim says, or kind of _grinds_ out. “It’s not you, I’m fine. Does it—” and suddenly things are almost looking better, because Tim has turned onto his side and stopped talking through his teeth, and it’s dark, but Jaime doesn’t need to see to know Tim is looking at him from not very far away, and there are no creepy white lenses involved.

 _Mask = protection, skin = protected. Detecting chemical traces. Detecting pressure, pressure = blink. Skin = yielding. Yielding?_

Soft, Jaime thinks. Tim is asking him if the armor talks to him all the time, more than would be strictly necessary, and Jaime doesn’t know how to explain that the armor never shuts up, and right now it is trying to tell him how soft the skin around Tim’s eyes must be. Like that’s something Jaime wanted to logically deduce. “It’s kind of…it’s alive,” he says instead. “Sometimes I think it’s just curious?”

More pressure. Tim is wrinkling his nose, and it must be the dark, or he must be really, really worn out from this messed up camping trip, because Jaime doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen Tim do that. “It’s a symbiote,” he says, and Jaime nods before realizing he should say yes except, it wasn’t really a question. “You teach it things, and it keeps you both alive.” Tim starts to relax next to him, even if the way he’s laying there right now is only relaxed in comparison to how tense he was when Jaime crawled into the tent.

He likes to know things, Jaime thinks. He likes to understand. So maybe he shouldn’t point out that he doesn’t, but the scarab is giving off an entirely different low hum than the one it has around the metahumans, when it’s assessing a threat. It feels…like a grumble. Like it’s insulted, only it doesn’t know why. “Yes and no?” Jaime doesn’t mean it to be a question, but he’s really not Robin, he’s really not that smart and prepared, and he’s been feeling his way through this pretty much the entire time. Feeling his way through things is all he really knows how to do, and maybe that’s what he’s teaching the scarab while it keeps him from dying when he fucks up. “I mean, if it were just about keeping us alive, I really wouldn’t _be here_ , you know. Fighting aliens.”

“Maybe you’re dumbing it down,” Tim says, and he’s not. He’s not relaxing enough to be sleepy, but there’s something sleepy in his voice. Jaime forgot that Bats have a sense of humor behind their scowls.

“Something like that, yeah,” and there’s another hum in him, a nicer hum, and he’s laying there having fuzzy girl feelings again.

Minutes pass like sighs, only no one is sighing, or talking. Someone laughs outside, and he’s pretty sure it’s Rose. It should be comfortable, he should be falling asleep, but Tim is like, doing a really bad impression of both next to him, and it’s winding him up, and it’s winding the scarab up which just winds him up _more_.

The scarab has suggestions.

The scarab always has suggestions, and at this point Jaime can’t even be surprised that it thinks they should jerk off and go to sleep, because it’s not like it can account for how _incredibly weird that would be_. How it is so not the same when someone else is there, and wow, Jaime spends way too much time with people who have no concern for his self esteem, because he’s not sure if it’s Paco or Brenda in his head going _how is it supposed to account for something you haven’t experienced?_

Actually, that might be Peacemaker. Jaime really doesn’t want to think about Peacemaker right now, but he didn’t want to think about jerking off either, and he didn’t want a sentient alien bug fused to his spine and here he is anyway, camping with a bunch of superheroes. _Stress_ , the scarab says, and it starts assessing the threat of a tightly-wound vigilante in sweatpants, only Jaime doesn’t think it’s entirely necessary for it to tell him about the humidity gathering between them the longer they lay there, breathing in each other’s general direction. He thinks about the notes on Rose’s heartbeat and wonders if, next time he hangs out with these people, he can prepare the scarab for generalized sexual tension between overworked superheroes and impress upon it how much he _doesn’t need it spelled out_.

He’d do that _now_ , but really he’s just thinking _shut up shut up_ and really failing to turn away from Tim, and thinking he’s going to _need_ to jerk off soon until the scarab does that really, extremely-good-for-destroying-a-mood thing where it starts suggesting other options, and the options are crowd-suppression concussion waves or killing people. “If we do that I’m seriously never going to sleep again,” he groans, and it isn’t until Tim stills again and like, _stops breathing_ that Jaime realizes he said that out loud. Which is pretty stupid, since he’s always saying that kind of thing out loud. “Armor!” he says abruptly, tossing himself onto his back and sort of hoping the scarab feels it for the _please shut the fuck up_ that it is, and he shoves his hands over his face like he’s the one who spends every night in the tower in his uniform.

“Are you—okay,” Tim asks haltingly, like he’s making a decision to ask that instead of _what the fuck_ , or _what does your armor want_ , which.

Yeah, better he not ask that, but now Jaime has to lay there scowling at himself because a) he’s being a dumbass, and b) maybe asking _Tim_ that was one of the options the scarab doesn’t really think of. “I’m fine, my armor just thinks you need to be—” _don’t say neutralized, don’t say neutralized—_ “get some sleep. And it’s suggestions pretty much range from communal masturbation to shooting you in the head, because it’s _an asshole_ ,” he adds, pressing even harder on his face like he can escape his misery by crushing his own head.

The scarab says it can make him a new one. Jaime considers giving in to belabored, manly hero sobs.

Tim is breathing again, or at least breathing in a way Jaime can hear, and it has this flat-sharp-flat quality that might mean Tim is laughing. “I’d rather not be shot in the head,” he says, and Jaime gives in to _something_ , and they’re both laughing, choking, until Tim covers his mouth and just. This is _better_ , so Jaime finds his wrist and pulls his hand _away_ , and Tim gasps his next few breaths like it’s too much. And it kind of is, because his wrist is _strong_ but still incredibly small for it, and he’s not wearing the gauntlet and. It’s not like Jaime doesn’t touch people, it’s not like his friends and family don’t beat on him lovingly and hug him when he gets back from space, but Tim is not one of _those_ friends.

He’s not pulling away, either, even if they both know he totally could if he wanted. He’s—calmer, finally, and even with everything hanging in the air, Jaime thinks they could sleep now, but he still feels some stupid need to blurt, “You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you.” Because he’s thinking about it, and projection is a really great coping mechanism that is never completely transparent, ever.

Tim sighs, and his arm flexes in a way that feels like the _asked nicely_ before he just takes it away from him, and Jaime loosens his grip. “If my insomnia bothers you—or the armor—I don’t mind sleeping outside. I don’t want to make you uncomf—” and the scarab is humming again when Jaime gives in some more and kisses Tim to shut him up, keeps kissing him when the scarab points out that he tightened his hand on Tim’s wrist before he moved and Tim is totally letting this happen. Tim is opening his mouth and it’s not as incredibly weird as Jaime would have imagined—it’s awkward and off-center and he’s still not sure it’s a good idea, even if the scarab seems to _approve_ —but it’s. It’s a kiss, wet and messy and hard until one of them stops freaking out (it’s not Jaime) and softens, and then it’s a _kiss_ and he remembers to stop trying to rip Tim’s hand off with his nervous-horny-death-grip because you don’t do that to people you’re kissing. Even if it means Tim is free to grab _him_ now, ripping the zipper of his sleeping bag down and rolling in a really, really good way to straddle Jaime in his: a good, non-threatening way, and his armor can stop reacting any minute now, because Tim doesn’t have powers. Tim doesn’t even have weird magic artifacts or alien tech, and it doesn’t mean he can’t beat Jaime within an inch of his life, but. He doesn’t seem inclined to, right now.

Mostly he seems inclined to stick his tongue in Jaime’s mouth, put his hands in Jaime’s hair and that’s pretty weird too: the calloused flat of bony thumbs catching on his skin, and the fingers are long and _not_ that different from Traci’s, but stronger, _hungrier_ , in a way Jaime can completely understand, because _generalized sexual tension_ is like, right up there with _saving the world_ and _don’t disappoint dad_ when it comes to significant parts of his life. It’s actually really reassuring to know it’s probably the same for Tim, if a hundred times worse on that last one because his dad is _Batman_.

The scarab wants to know if it’s normal for the human mind to wander at a time like this, and Jaime is pretty sure it’s just fucking with him at this point, but it’s a good question. He’s grimacing enough against Tim’s mouth that Tim pulls away, kind of ridiculously high up there so he can watch Jaime with the shadows slanting across his face where the mask ought to be, and asks if this is okay.

“I’ve had worse,” Jaime says, only it sounds like a question, and not like some cool confident guy who makes out with people all the time. It’s definitely not an answer, and he doesn’t have one. He has:

crawling out of his sleeping bag, the way his body slides between Tim’s thighs and Tim shivering as he does it;

the softer pads of his fingers on Tim’s skin, pushing his hands over cotton sweats and scarred sides, and the realization that Tim’s hips are so _narrow_ , that there is lean, cut muscle on his bones and not much else, and the scarab appreciating the _efficiency_ of it. The scarab is a fucking _perv_ and Jaime can’t even disagree with it on this, even if he’s really not sure about the foot thing.

Tim probably has nice feet, too, but Jaime has a lack of interest right now that is all about where he’s actually touching him, and being pretty sure that Tim is smoothing his hands over his throat because that’s where he wants to be touched, fucking _projection_ , and it’s _sweet_ like soda from a glass bottle on a dry afternoon when Tim’s mouth clicks open and he does something as un-Robin like as whimper when Jaime fits his thumbs along the tendons that stretch up from his collar to the corner of his jaw. Peacemaker in his head again, pressure points and ripping heads from shoulders, but Tim probably knows more about that than Jaime ever will, and it only makes him squirm in a good way when Jaime cups his jaw with his fingers and holds it at an angle so he can kiss him again. So he can get his lip bitten and his shorts tugged on, and he’s starting to wonder why Tim _doesn’t_ want Rose in here right until Tim puts his hand on his dick.

Which, doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it still feels like a big moment of _duh_ , and maybe this is one more reason Cassie’s phasers are set to kill. It’s a little comforting to be thinking of Cassie and Rose the first time a guy touches his dick, but it also seems a little rude, because he definitely wouldn’t want to be thinking about them if it were Traci. And he definitely wouldn’t want to make that really undignified noise that is somewhere between a squawk and a grunt and thrust eagerly into her grip, either—he can’t decide if it’s just as rude to think about her now, or if it would be ruder not to, but Tim is squeezing him and licking at his mouth until Jaime has to lean back under him again, and he’s either going to use this experience to learn to stop making those noises or he’s going to come to terms with them, because Tim doesn’t seem interested in _not_ jacking him a little too hard, a little too _deliberately_ for Jaime to hold them back.

So he tries saying Tim’s name instead, breathing it, over and over until it just turns into a whine and he thinks the scarab is helping him arch his back like that, helping him try to fuck Tim’s hand a little faster and better, even if it’s still too dry and makes something in him _hurt_ , that stupid hungry feeling, that sixteen year old boy feeling that makes stupid things really important: getting off and saying the cool thing and _when did Tim get his pants down_ , another undignified noise and that scarab-hum is probably a _laugh_ , because Tim pulled away to lick his hand and now he’s _holding them both in his slick hand,_ leaking precome on Jaime’s dick and thrusting down against him. And Tim pretty much _is_ that cool guy who makes out with people all the time and gets handjobs in tents, apparently, because when he starts to whimper back, when he moans, it isn’t undignified at all. It’s kind of ridiculously hot, and Jaime tries to move his hands up, pet Tim’s face and hair and participate a little beyond squirming under the guy.

The scarab keeps measuring the spikes in his vitals and asks, just when he’s starting to think he’s about to come but also kind of feeling like it’s _never going to happen_ , if he’s alright. The feeling twists and mutes, lances back through him and he’s torn between being glad it’s helping him _last_ and wanting someone to tear it out of him again. A laugh hiccups out of him into Tim’s mouth, gets his bottom lip bitten and held as Tim moans again and squeezes, turns the perfect tease of his thrusts into something _worse_ that must be much, much better for him, because he has his other hand braced next to Jaime’s head and his hips are _snapping_ forward, that same deliberate rhythm that he probably learned in the Batcave and drives people crazy with. Crazy enough that Jaime turns his head and licks Tim’s wrist, _bites_ it.

Tim grunts and stops and comes all over his stomach, which should be weird, but is another kind of ridiculously hot.

Jaime is going to make a terrible joke about summer camp when this is over, or maybe he’ll fall asleep and forget to. That would probably be better.

Right now, it’s not an immediate danger, because Tim is letting him keep the grip on his wrist again, is slicking his hand in his own come and finally, finally jacking Jaime fast enough and the scarab recognizes _that_ spike by now, even if the hand on him is new and it’s not his own wrist he’s biting down on to muffle his cry. Even if he hopes all the spikes in his vitals could involve someone’s (Tim’s) spunk on his belly and som—okay, _Tim_ —taking their wrist out of his mouth and pushing his head up to kiss him. He’d probably still die pretty young, but at least he’d die _happy_.

He tries to put that thought together a second time to make more sense of it, but it falls apart in his head and he’s glad it’s dark, to hide his goofy afterglow smile, even if Tim can probably picture it just from kissing him. Jaime wonders if kissing is supposed to be even better after sex, sloppy and slow and with less of the urgency. It definitely makes him feel—closer to okay about it, or like he can start answering the _question_ of being okay. Like he was at least a little more than a really willing body for Tim to rub one off against, which he probably should have considered ahead of time, because he’s not sure he could be okay with _that_.

Paco would make fun of him so hard, but Paco wouldn’t like it either.

“Do you want, um,” he murmurs, just sort of rubbing his face on Tim’s so he can talk: “you can share my sleeping bag. If you want.”

Basically the lamest thing he’s ever said, and he stops nuzzling Tim’s face to lay back and let the lameness of it wash over him, drag the fuck-stupid feeling out in waves and leave his insides to shrivel up the longer no one says anything. He’s not even blushing, he’s gone straight past embarrassed to _resigned_.

Tim breaks the self-image destroying silence with a short laugh, which is even more unhelpful than the sound of him shifting up to pull his sweatpants back up. The scarab points out that killing him is still an option, and if Jaime’s fucked this up and made it awkward again, he might have to.

Or Tim could just laugh again, sounding young in a way that kind of breaks Jaime’s brain, and shove at him a little to get him moving. “Sure.”

It’s pretty much the less begrudging version of the tone the scarab uses when he doesn’t want to kill people, but Jaime’s learned to take what he can get, and keep taking, until Tim’s face is tucked up under his chin, until the scarab is being pleased with itself and Tim is saying something about facial hair; until the last thing Jaime remembers is telling them both to shut up before falling asleep.


End file.
